Friends

24 December 2016

The scene beyond the rustic garden gate was like a Christmas card. Outside the ivy laden cottage a robin was perched in a holly bush. A recent snowfall covered the thatched roof like oddly shaped clumps of cotton wool. Leaded light windows reflected the orange flames from the fire. Beneath those windows, a wooden wheelbarrow filled with logs. The bare beech tree looked strangely out of place, dull brown when everything else was highly coloured. The cottage door, as red as the holly berries, was adorned by a festive wreath. The door was ajar and inside could be seen a Swedish Pine of mammoth proportions ablaze with twinkling lights. And the aroma that emanated from within was of turkey, slowly roasting.

In the snow-packed lane, an elderly itinerant peered over the boundary hedge, white unkempt hair wafting skywards in the biting wind. With ice-cold fingers he smoothed it over his crown then pulled his shabby grey coat closer to his chest. The motions were entirely mechanical for he was truly not conscious of the cold. He had no need of fires or Christmas fare, for his soul was warmed through with love for Jesus, who kept him safe and whose birthday they shared.

I don’t normally take notice of things pushed through the letterbox
and I’m not the sort of person who buys stuff or deals with strangers who call.
But this was different, I wasn’t put under pressure by a personal visit, all I
had was this note. It was my choice – take it or leave it.

It was the photograph of the lad who was touting for work
that decided me and let’s face it all I had to do was phone. Studying the
photograph I saw a pleasant young man and mentally praised him for his
ingenuity. At least I could see who I was dealing with.

There were one or two things I could get him to do, the first
being the removal of autumn leaves which were literally covering paths and lawn
in my garden. It was too much for me now that I can no longer bend for longer
than two minutes and sweeping up leaves would have my heart pounding in no
time.

So, I rang and spoke to the lad. It turned out that he is a
student and tries to earn money when he’s not studying. Well, from all accounts
and stuff I read in newspapers it is unusual for a young fellow to want work.
He said he would come and view the job and then fix a date to do the clearing
up.

I must admit I liked what I saw. His name is Luke, good
looking and polite and when he did the work he did it well. I have promised to
bear him in mind if something else needs doing.

There’s another side to this story and not as pleasing as the
above. Garden rubbish is

collected by the council twice a month and I pay for
the privilege. Naturally this is a seasonal thing, collections stop in winter.
Every week I check on line that I have up to date collection times, and print
the information for ease of reference. Luke and I had worked out the exact date
when he should do the clearing up job and on the due day the wheelie bin was
put out for the men to collect. We have to put our bins out, the collectors don’t
walk up the path to collect them.

Except, they didn’t do either.

I checked on line and, yes, I had the right date. What I didn’t
know was that THEY had made a mistake. The next time I checked the date had
been withdrawn. Now I’m stuck with a wheelie bin full of leaves, too heavy for
me to shift. The window cleaner helped out by bringing the bin into the front
garden where it will have to stay until next spring.

I was feeling disgruntled about it all but then the phone
rang. It was the lady who organises my section of Visiting The Elderly asking
if I would like to go to a Rotary Club lunch in a week’s time? Would you
believe I said I couldn’t make it – I had checked the diary and realised the
chiropodist was coming to deal with my feet!! I realised what I had done as
soon as I put the phone down and promptly rang back.

YES, I said I CAN go! To hell with it, I could always change the
appointment with the foot man.

11 December 2016

In November it was my old ex-neighbour’s 80th birthday. Joe and I had lived next door to Doug for 26 years but he is now in
a home. I was going to say a home for the bewildered but that isn’t quite true,
the home isn’t strictly for people with poor memories but they look after them
the same as elderly folk who are mentally hale and hearty but incapacitated in
other ways. Along with a couple who lived the other side of Doug’s bungalow
(that’s the one that’s been ripped apart and practically rebuilt) I was invited
to and attended his birthday dinner at one of my favourite eating places, Moor
Hall. Yes, that’s the one I’ve written about many times before. The other
invitees provided the transport for which I was truly grateful. It meant I
could drink some wine and not worry about driving.

Doug was married once but it didn’t work out. After the
divorce he returned to live with his parents and stayed there for the rest of
his life, leastways until last year when he moved into the care home. After his
parents died he made no effort to redecorate the bungalow, nor did he splash
out on modern equipment or anything that would have made life easier. Every
week he took his laundry to a laundromat, he never redecorated, and he had
nothing to make his life more comfortable. He had a gardener to do the mowing,
but then so do I. I used to think it was awful but now I’ve reached the age
when I don’t want to be bothered with these things. The difference between Doug
and me is that I still know it and can still get things done.

The first thing Doug said to me when we were seated at the ‘birthday’
table, was ‘Did you move into the Close, which is a cul-de-sac opposite our
bungalows. I reminded him that I lived next door. Oh, says he, you must know
Joe. It was difficult enough talking to him without having to explain that Joe,
my husband, had died so I left it. Gradually though he started to recall
things, for example our dogs. He looked after them when we were away, in fact
over the years he looked after many dogs in the neighbourhood.

Despite communication problems we got through the evening and
it was enjoyable watching him open his presents. He got tired of doing it half
way through but his family made him carry on. I felt sorry for him then. It is
so easy for people with no memory problems or ageing hands to think they know
best. For me, it was a relief to know that others have the same sort of
forgetfulness, particularly this morning when I picked up a bowl that had been
washed and wondered where to put it. Everything has its place in my house but it
seems I am slowly forgetting where those places are. Perhaps I should make a
list! I told myself to get a grip but whether I listen to my own advice remains
to be seen.

So, seeing Doug as he is now and remembering how he was all
the years Joe and I knew him was quite sad. I am thankful that I manage to find
solutions to overcome some of the problems … I have plenty of paper - I can
write notes. Just praying I will remember where they are…. grins.

04 December 2016

I
had never heard of this organisation until I saw a leaflet, yet it started in
the early 1960s. I can’t remember if the leaflet came through the door or was
an insert in a magazine. Whichever, I saw it and discussed it with Rosanne. She
has a brain to die for so when she suggested I ‘go for it’ I did. All I had to
do was fill in a coupon and send it off; if I didn’t like what came back I
didn’t have to follow it through.

The
idea of the organisation is in the name – Visiting the Elderly, predominantly
those who live alone. In no time at all I received a lovely letter with a
request that in double quick time, after completing another more detailed form,
I received a phone call from Janine, one of the organisers who was starting a
group in my area.

I
was a bit apprehensive when another call came making an appointment for Janine
and her colleague, Fran, to visit. I was nervous, you see, not knowing what
would transpire from their visit. I needn’t have worried. It was all very
informal. I think my nervousness came from the fact I was now officially an old
person being offered help. It’s not something you think about until faced with
living alone but I wasn’t the sort to dwell on my circumstances. I did things,
that was fine. I was okay.

Janine
and Fran arrived and they couldn’t have been nicer. I was invited to afternoon
tea one Sunday afternoon. At someone’s house. With my own driver (Fran) who
would be my regular chauffeur. I was given a schedule of dates for afternoon
tea once a month, always on a Sunday. Apparently, there were seven of us, not
counting the volunteers, which they said was a good start.

I
have just been on my first one and enjoyed every minute, especially the drive
there and back in a fabulous sporty blue Mercedes with gadgets everywhere. Just
imagine owning such a thing! I can tell you, I was in my element. Marvellous!
And to think I shall be going in that beauty again. Yes!

The
tea consisted of a variety of fancy sandwiches, various pies, trifle, and cakes
of all description – cup cakes, slab cakes, fruit pies and tarts, followed by
chocolate sweets to die for. I knew I shouldn’t have had such a big lunch!

The
company was great, some fab conversations and plenty of laughs. One lady, who
bragged about being 94, had a terrific sense of humour and told us plenty of
funny tales about her life and family. Another one told us tales about her cat,
so I whipped out my phone to show pictures of Charlie. It was all very light-hearted
and enjoyable and I can’t wait to go again.

Fran
brought me home (in THAT car) and asked me to contact her if I need anything. I
won’t be a nuisance but it’s nice to know that there is someone I can ring if I
need to. I have since told a friend of mine about it. She is older than me and
lives alone, so maybe there’s a group in her area that she can go to. I know
one thing, she would never regret it.

27 November 2016

I write this post at the risk of upsetting squirrel fans, in particular my good friend Ron who adores them.

I have written before, many times,
about the squirrels and the problems they cause. However, where I live it only
applies to those that scoff all the bird food. I have tried various ways to
stop them getting at all the delicious seed and nuts, (thus preventing birds from feeding) to no avail.

It’s not just the stealing of food
that bothers me, it’s the fact that as well as having to fork out for bird
food, I must also replace feeders on a regular basis. There’s only so much
money in the bank so I continually search for solutions to the problem.

(cow bell brought home from Austria)

I have tried banging on the window to
scare the pests away. I have tried screaming, ringing a cow bell, clapping hands, slamming doors, to no avail. As soon as I stop the squirrel or
squirrels jump once more into action.

A week ago, as I was preparing to
sort the refuse bin ready for collection, I spotted a squirrel jumping onto the
birds feeding station. I happened to have a black plastic bag in my hand which
I waved in his direction. Oooh he didn’t like that; scarpered as fast as he
could. Oooh, I thought, better keep a black bag handy for future scares. It
worked. I only had to wave the bag and the squirrel scooted - couldn’t get away
quick enough – but if I went out without the bag he stayed put.

I left the bag in a permanent
position by the door in readiness for another

squirrel visitor.

Just the other day I gave it serious
thought. Why not tie the bag to the station, a bit like flying a flag. Well,
reaching the top would have been a problem, me being quite small in stature and
not agile enough to stand on steps. So this is what I did, I tied it to the middle
section of the pole which is how the squirrels get up there. I reckoned he
wouldn’t be able to get a grip on a pliable bag that kept shifting in the
wind.

Three days later, still no squirrel. Correction: I
saw him, or rather ‘them’, but only on the bird table upon which I put seed for
bigger birds. Okay, so he still got fed… but it stopped him from damaging the expensive
feeders which was my aim. I patted my own back for hitting on a
solution but deep down I wondered if a committee of squirrels was at work
trying to solve their problem.

I was right not to get too complacent
since in the approaching dusk I saw the squirrel leap and successfully land on
one of the feeders where he proceeded to scoff the seed, that is until I shot
out, screaming and ranting and threatening him with his life. He didn’t hang
about, mainly because in my hand was another black bag.

Oh well, back to the drawing board I went,
but for short term measures I kept the black bag right by the patio window
because one shake was all it took to send squirrel into a dramatic fleeing
performance. The only problem was having to be on watch all the time although squirrel saw to it that I didn't have to wait long before finding another way round the problem. He did no more than unhook two of the robust squirrel-proof feeders and smashed them on the ground.

new fence, new bird table

While all this was going on I had had a new fence erected in the garden (see picture above) which pushed me into purchasing a new bird table (see picture above). It was cheap and pretty so it was off with the old and on with the new. Let's see how long it takes the squirrels to wreck it like he did the first one I had.

20 November 2016

According to the British the correct name for a cell phone is, did you guess, a mobile phone. Maybe the following will explain!Why do men walk about when they talk on a
cell phone? I have noticed recently that the workmen at the house next door
cannot keep still when they talk. They strut! They cross the road while on the
phone, then cross back, repeating the routine until finishing their chat.
Sometimes they cross the road and walk a little way on the other side, then
reverse the programme until they are back where they started. There is also a
guy who carries a mug of tea at the same time, phone to ear, drinking vessel to
mouth. There are low walls they could sit on but it seems they prefer to keep
on the move.

Whilst watching this from the window (yes,
I’m a peeper) I was reminded of my Joe. He had ants in his pants, I think,
because he couldn’t sit still while on the phone. Not a cell phone, though, he
wasn’t into those things. No, he did it whilst on the landline house phone
which, you can guess, was one he could walk about with. And did! Always! He
would walk from room to room, sometimes hurrying as if to prove something, then
adopting a go-slow gait, all the time talking and demonstrating with his free
hand. I often mused about it, wondering if looking busy was a throwback to when
he worked in an office. He certainly gave that impression.

Women seem a lot more casual
about phone calls. I have never seen one strut about whilst talking. Yes, they
talk as they walk but they don’t seem to amble up and down as if trying to look
busy. Me? I never move around because I don’t take calls outside the house and
never answer when I’m driving. Just call me Goody Two-Shoes! I feel quite proud
when I hear official pleas for people to cease using phones while driving, and pleased
when those idiots are caught red-handed and dealt with by the police.

So, to end this rant perhaps
you guys could explain to me what it is all about. Do you strut about while
talking on the phone?

13 November 2016

It is three years since I took on the
presidency of the local Women's Institute, and I said at the outset I would not serve any longer.
Three years is enough. Year 1 is a learning process, year 2 is enjoyable, year
3 is a chore and a worry. It has always been the case in all walks of life that
as time moves on the top of the tree becomes more tiresome than enjoyable.

I’ve done it all now so it’s time to give
it a rest. I’ve done the Federation Chairman bit, which involved being head of
a large county area, and being President of my local branch. I can do no more
and I need a break.

Don’t get me wrong, I shall still be a
member but it would be good to sit back and watch others at work.

Like many organisations falling membership hit
home. My institute is elderly; we have been around since 1932. Modern women
work during the day so there’s little chance of luring them to monthly
afternoon events. One or two retirees have joined but they don’t want the
responsibility of an officer’s job. They just want to meet friends and listen
to a good speaker.

Speakers these days don’t like to do it for
free. Some charge £60 to £100 to give an hour’s talk, on top of which we had
bills to pay. Owning the hall meant we must pay rates, gas and electric bills
on top of speaker fees, repairs, decorators. plumbers, and more, so less fees
coming in means we just can’t cope.

I said at the outset that I would only
serve for the recommended three years and that time passed quickly. I faced the
Annual General Meeting with determination to keep the promise I made to myself
and others. Yes, it was time to elect a new president. Not one hand went up. It
meant only one thing…. closure. Obviously, nobody cared about the institute.

Should I feel guilty? Well, I don’t. What I
feel is huge relief.

My involvement will continue, helping
others to dispose of a hall that was a gift from the parents of a WI member all
those years ago. It may be an easier job than we thought, but then again it
might not.

I have made plans to join another local
institute in the New Year, one where I can sit and listen and make new friends.
I won’t be alone, others will do the same. I think I’ve gained something, don’t
you?

06 November 2016

For want of something better to do
I often watch quiz shows on television. It’s one way to keep my mind occupied
and alert. I don’t very often get the answers right but at least it exercises
the brain and that’s important. I guess that’s why I still blog, albeit now
only once a week, since the preparation of a new post might keep me going for a
week and that is the right kind of brain exercise. However, my brain has
nothing to do with the subject of this post.

Have you ever noticed or indeed do
you ever watch quiz programmes where everyone claps themselves if they get
something right? Just because the audience applauds is it necessary to do the
same? I would be interested to read your replies to the following:

1. Does a correct reply to a question warrant self-applause?

2. Is it a tad conceited to applaud oneself for getting the right answer?

3. Is self-applause sheer joy at having got it right?

I’m old school because I verbally
applaud those contestants who smile happily at their success without once
lifting hands. I can understand the excitement a young person feels about
success but what about the grannies and granddads who enter the same shows. Sarcastic
remark coming up …. perhaps they’re there to exercise both brain and brawn!

So tell me, wise bloggers, have the rules changed? Are youngsters now
taught that self-congratulation is the way forward, that modesty no longer
exists? Sadly, I believe the latter is the case which does nothing more than
emphasise the age barrier.

31 October 2016

November was the month, many years ago, when I was seriously burnt, and had the misfortune to be in hospital when victims of bonfire and firework ‘accidents’ were admitted. I felt obliged to write the following prose and poem, at the same time incorporating other monstrous November scenes.

INSIGHT TO NOVEMBER

The Prose

November is perhaps the most moving month of the year, steeped in tradition and teeming with expectancy. Why yearn for sunnier climes or a terracotta tan when November's seasonal pulchritude comes free of charge. Broad avenues, awash with colour and piled high with copper jewels: red-gold gems, cascading from majestic trees, making way for fresh creations of embryonic buds.

Scarlet poppies adorning our attire signify remembrance for the soldiers who fought for liberation … the war dead, who gave us optimism. Yields of mistletoe and holly and sometimes early snow prompt thoughts of Christmas celebrations, of nativity, and gatherings of families and friends.

Thus, November is a month of diverse elements: breathtaking, poignant, and sad. But it is never dull and those who claim that it is should examine its true potential, and wrest a soupçon of comfort from the depths of the sombre monotony that exists solely within their hearts.

23 October 2016

There are great debates going on at
the moment about caring for the elderly who live alone and the cost of same. I am reminded that in days gone by, especially in winter and at Christmas, the
general public was asked to ‘pop in and see if your neighbour needs anything’.
Those pleas would come at Christmas when the general public was asked to
remember that not everyone had family to provide the Christmas spirit. Joe and
I did our bit for the neighbours but that was a long time ago. Once we moved we
were among people a lot younger than ourselves so the necessity to keep an eye
on the elderly was removed.

Now that I have reached old
age I have begun to wish those media reminders would start again. Why? Because
from one week’s end to another I seldom see people unless I go out to the shops
which, fortunately, I can still do. But for how long? It’s kind of scary to think things might get
worse. Don't misunderstand me, I like my own company, I don't sit and brood, I get on with things, I write, I make plans, go out to lunch with a friend, and there's my monthly involvement with the Women's Institute and Townswomen's Guild.

Recently I ventured to visit my
immediate neighbours and was greeted with ‘Hello, Stranger’. Gone are the days,
apparently, when people actually cared.

Okay, I have been told to call in at
any time but often ‘any time’ appears to be inconvenient. I have been greeted with ‘Oh, dear, I’ve just
got back from shopping’ or ‘hubby is having a lie down’ or ‘I have an
appointment in half an hour’. So the upshot of this is that I don’t go. I am
sure they don’t realise the effect their remarks have on me. I am fairly
independent and still have outside interests, nevertheless it hurts at those
times when I haven’t had a soul to speak except the girl in the shop.

I am not complaining – or am I?
However, I do worry about the future and what will happen to me then? Fortunately
I have an alarm button I can press in dire emergencies. If that should happen
the folk at the other end of the phone can contact – yes, my next door
neighbour – in an emergency. I just hope she isn’t out shopping or having a lie
down! Looking on the bright side, though, if there is no response police or
ambulance services will rush out. That’s some consolation, I can tell you.

Toend this tale of apparent misery
(no, not really) I want to explain that the elderly are getting older and many
of them live alone. Please do have a look round and see if there is anyone you
could say ‘Hi’ to or pay them a visit – especially in winter and at Christmas.
A kind word here and there actually makes life worth living for some elderly
folk. Remember, it might be you one day!

16 October 2016

The Internet can be very irritating. Talk about invasiveness! There’s a new feature which I’m sure
Google thinks is brilliant. It goes like this: if I buy stuff on line and get
confirmation of purchase by email Google makes a list in case I forget. I
didn’t ask for it nor do I want it (admittedly it was only once but once is enough). The retailer notifies me of a delivery time
so I guess Google is fully aware of that too. Another thing, if I make entries
on my iPhone calendar or ’things to remember’ list Google immediately peeks at
Cloud, notes the info and reminds me. I thought Cloud was sort-of private which
presumably is an incorrect assumption. Can anyone see it if they want to or is
it only Google? Silly of me, really, to think it was totally private.

Another
grouse I have, concerning Blogger, is to do with comments that are
left on a post. Hitherto I could validate and publish comments on all devices
but not anymore. Suddenly I can only do it on the iPhone. If I
want to do it on the iPad or computer I am required to enter my email address and password
EVERY time, for every comment received. So now I read them on the iPad then
whip out the phone and post the comments from there. Whatever happened to
easy-to-use Safari? Now I click on Safari and get Google with loads of complications. All this is
very hard going.

Visiting
blogs is the same, in fact anything to do with Blogging has to be authenticated
by name and password. Every time! Does everyone have the same inconvenience?

I
had a brilliant idea... change to one of my other email providers. So into
settings I went and arranged that notification of comments would be made by
them. Forget Google, I thought. Flippin’ heck, even that didn’t work. I was
notified by both. Well, that was no good. Went back and cancelled the
instruction which means I’m back to square one which is heavily laced with
frustration.

To get round the above and avoid having to 'sign in' every few minutes I was obliged to 'join the club', meaning I had to give everything about myself barring dress sense. I had to give phone number, date of birth, the lot, just to write a few words on a blog. However, once that was done I had no further problems. It's the cheek of it all that gets me. Who keeps all our information, that's what I want to know.

Is
there a book somewhere that enlightens folk like me? How sad, though, when in
many ways I’m an expert on the damned computer – or should I say WAS an expert.

+++

Since
writing the above I have been updated, or rather my gadgets have. I am now the not-so-proud
possessor of stuff I didn’t ask for nor want, with everything changed round and
programmes added that I will never use. I do NOT want to pay for goods using
the phone, I am quite happy to take cash from purse and pay that way or use the
debit card.

I
can understand that modern living demands some of these things and that

there
are people who like to use what is now known as convenience methods. Well, my
way was convenient and I want to keep it that way. I wouldn’t mind if there was
a choice but with iPhone and iPad all I was told was that I needed an update.
Presuming the update meant technical changes to normal programmes and the way
they worked I accepted it. Now I have an iPad and iPhone that are practically
unusable ... maybe not quite unusable but they are extremely complicated. I am
seriously thinking of binning the lot and purchasing a normal phone that does
what it is supposed to do – answer and receive calls from friends and
relatives. As for the iPad, the question must be asked ... do I really need
one?

By
the way, this isn’t an age thing... I have young friends who don’t understand
it either. Perhaps we should start a revolution,
wave the banners and shout ... down with i-thingies.

Finale!

As
if to punish me for using all those swear words, the old PC gave up the ghost,
together with the other one that was sort of spare. I reckon they were in
league. ‘Let’s do it together, see how she copes’ sort of thing. Well, they
didn’t have to wait long to find out. I believe I screamed my frustration … I’m
sure that’s why Charlie the cat rushed out in great haste.

When
I calmed down I made a phone call and begged my computer expert to sort things
out. Later that afternoon, he arrived and set to work. Only when he had signed
the computer death certificate did he suggest that I consider having a new
machine. Actually he wouldn’t have done that had he not been aware of my
repeated exclamations that only a new machine would be tolerated in this
household.

As
luck would have it I discovered that I did not HAVE to resort to another
Windows 10. No, I could have Windows 7 if I wanted. Can you guess what
decided me? You’re right, it was the thought of being able to use a laptop
without screaming. Windows 7. God bless you for still being around
in my time of need.

09 October 2016

Why is it that since Joe died
everything, well it seems like everything, is breaking down, desk, washing
machine, toilet, doorbell, computer, and little old me.

When the door bell recently packed up
Karen, my son’s partner, arranged for an electrician to fix it. Karen works for
a company that fits doors and windows and the electrician is someone they use a
lot. This guy came more or less straight away, which pleased me since I don’t
like not hearing people at my door.

The bell was unfixable so the guy
replaced it with a new one. Brilliant, I could now hear folk when they visit.
It didn’t cost too much, £50 which included labour.

It lasted a few weeks.

There was a strange and rather loud noise
that I couldn’t identify. I moved round the house to establish where it was
coming from, thinking maybe it came from the loft which housed water tanks,
wiring and stuff for the central heating, shower unit and lighting, and finally
fixed on a spot in the hall which is underneath
the loft area. To say I was worried is an understatement. I had visions of
things in the loft (which I have never visited) caving in. It took a guy
working at next door’s house to identify the cause. It was, of course, the new
bell. The guy opened it and we could see wires ‘shorting’. Sparks everywhere. Disconnection
was the only way until the bell was replaced or repaired.

I waited weeks, a bit like the wait
for the washing machine repair/replacement.

The guy who fixed the bell seemed to
have gone into hiding. No reply on his mobile phone, no response to text
messages sent by Karen. He rang when I first reported the matter and said he
would get in touch. I began to think he’d forgotten! I visualised having to get
someone else to look at the situation, and pay for the privilege. Again!

Then I had a phone call to say he had
all the ’stuff’ in his van ready to call but because he lived a distance away
he hadn’t been able to get here. He said he would come at the weekend when he
had nothing else on. I didn’t get excited!

In the meantime, whilst waiting for
the electrician, the toilet developed a

strange habit of rocking whenever I
flushed it. I found all was well if I held it steady whilst pressing the
handle. The trouble was I didn’t tell Hannah (cleaning lady) to do the same and
after her last visit I found one tile off the shelf at the back of the cistern
... and huge cracks elsewhere. The only thing I could think of when I
discovered it was that Hannah had dropped something on it, something
heavyweight – like a brick. Wrong, it
was the fault of the plumber who fixed new innards into the cistern a few weeks
before and hadn’t adjusted the height. Hannah’s husband, a primary school teacher, was
called in to try and fix it. And fix it he did, as well as making a great job
of replacing the tiles. So much for qualifications, eh?

Electrician came as promised, albeit
an hour later than he said but I admit heavy traffic can have an effect on
appointment-keeping. The old ‘new’ bell was removed and a new one fitted, but
this time the wiring was checked and a fault found in the bell-push itself. Not
the bell at all, would you believe. Thankfully I wasn’t charged for a second
bell or anything else, for that matter. End of story? Not even in my dreams!

WHY?

Because it happened again, late evening.
I had just had a shower when I heard the noise again. Not as loud as before but
definitely frightening. I couldn’t even reach it and wouldn’t touch it if I
could. I definitely needed help and soon. I wouldn’t have a wink of sleep with
that noise going on. In desperation I rang a neighbour to ask if he knew an
electrician who would come out at short notice. He didn’t, but he knew a man
who might take a look. That man was another neighbour.

Five minutes later both men arrived
at my door. I felt awful, having just washed hair and wearing nightwear. Ooooh!
Oh well, they’re both elderly folk and must have seen it all before.

The more practical of the two
disconnected the bell and advised me to buy a battery operated doorbell. Great
advice! However, since both men were both going abroad on holiday I would have
to find someone else to do it. I ignored this, thinking I would be able to do
it myself.

So, I bought the bell, read the
instructions and gave up. Later that day my iPad wouldn’t open, well it would
open but nothing could be seen on screen. This on top of some agonising days
when two laptops failed to work and an expert called Marco had to be called in.

Off to the computer shop went I
and laboured the tale to the Marco, all the while wondering if he thought he
was dealing with a dumb-cluck instead of a grown woman with intelligence to die
for (my view!). While he looked at it I told him about the bell and like all
gentlemen he said he would call round and fit it for me. He knew the address
since he had so recently had to repair two laptops.

It wasn’t until a few days later that
I discovered the update to Windows 10 had completely knocked my printer
programme haywire. I didn’t realise until I had to scan some papers and found
they appeared on screen upside-down with no way to turn them round. It took me ages to sort it and to discover
that it now takes twice as long to scan a document simply because it was
somehow updated along with Windows 10. I swore it would be easier to buy
a new laptop.

Things on the computer front took a turn for the worst when I was barred from enjoying internet usage altogether. It was time to invest in new equipment, which I have now organised. All I can say at this point is thank goodness for iPads. I started this post with a struggle on the laptop and ended it on the ipad. Hopefully I will be back to normal by next week.On top of all this the garden fence collapsed which meant calling in an expert fencer. This was nobody's fault but it was my responsibility to put right. Just another thing to add to the list of casualties.

So, this is the year of loss, breakages and breakdowns,
bust appliances and programme failures and I’m thanking the good Lord for
allowing all the kind men to take care of my problems, all except bell fixers
and those who supply dud washing machines.

02 October 2016

Do you see things? Of course you do, but do you see
things that aren’t there? Perhaps I should have started this with the question
‘do you believe in ghosts’.

Recently, I was sitting at the table when I saw, or
thought I saw someone standing beside me, a person wearing a light coloured
jacket. Fleeting thought was that it was Joe, but when I turned to look there was
nothing and nobody there. The same day, but prior to this ‘sighting’ I found a
small square of paper on the kitchen floor which listed all Joe’s medication.
It was information I had typed out so that Joe wouldn’t get confused about all
the pills he was taking. I had no idea where that tiny piece of paper came from
at that particular time. I am a tidy soul and there was no explanation as to
how it came to be on the floor.

I don’t
deliberately make things up! However, I do believe there is some form of
communication with the spirits.

An experience
I had many years ago led me to write the following story. It is somewhat
dressed up for sake of the reader but the ghostly incidents actually occurred.

UNEARTHLY
PRANKS

Perched on precarious stepladders,
Sarah Gamble interrupted the shelf cleaning to sniff the air. She had earlier
thought she had imagined it, but it was no fantasy - the ghastly stench of fermenting
fruit was back. Without hesitation she jumped to the floor and wrenched open
the airing cupboard door, hauling out neatly stacked yellow towels and white
diapers. In the flurry of activity she thought how awful it would be if her
second child's apparel began to disappear.

When the last item had joined the others on the quarry tiles Sarah
examined the cupboard, eyeing the timber board which hid the hot water tank
through which not even the flimsiest towelling bib could escape. She began to
chew her lower lip as recollections surged of past experiences, strange smells
and mysterious losses, toys and clothes finding their way out of the apartment
never to be seen again, and Jimmy's stories of someone breathing on his arms.
Sarah shuddered at the memory. Leaning against the steps, screwing the yellow
duster into a ball, she recalled that first Christmas when the ordeal started.

Sarah and Jacko were delighted with the
apartment, Jacko in particular liking the river view beyond the garage. If we
had a dog, he'd say, whenever he parked his great bulk in front of the French
windows, I could walk him along the river bank. Sarah was thankful they didn't
have a dog, or a cat, or a budgie. All her time was taken looking after Jimmy,
running the home, and doing a full time job. Tending pets did not figure in her
daily programme.

The apartment was on the ground floor of one of those huge converted
Victorian dwellings, once the residence of a well-to-do family if the servants'
bells were anything to go by. Jacko thought the misshapen rooms were grotesque
until he got used to them but Sarah loved the alcoves and crannies that gave
the rooms character. Jimmy took to his new quarters with the eagerness of a
three-year old on the threshold of discovery.

'Still love the place, Sarah?' asked
Jacko, six months after they moved in. They were reclining on the rust-coloured
three-seater taking a breather from installing Christmas lights.

Sarah shifted her nude legs to a more comfortable position on Jacko's
lap, absently fiddling with her blonde fringe. 'Moving here was the best thing
we ever did,' she said. 'It’s great for Jimmy to have a garden to play in.

Jacko reached across to stroke her cheek. 'It's a pity there are no
other kids around. He'll get lonely later on.' Playfully he tweaked her nose.
'Unless ....'

Sarah cuffed his arm. 'Don't get ideas, Jacko. I'm not ready for another
kid.' She swung her legs to the floor to avoid her husband's nomadic hand,
primly straightening her skirt and adjusting the neckline of her hand-knitted
pink top. But she didn't object when he seized her face and began to devour her
lips … and she cursed when Jimmy called out that he wanted a pee.

Later that evening when Jimmy was
asleep, snoring gently and clutching the leg of a majestic brown bear, Sarah
pushed a lock of flaxen hair from his brow and rearranged his quilt. The
resemblance to his dad was uncanny even at this young age. Both had deep blue
eyes and both knew how to use them to good effect. She prayed that when finally
she allowed herself to conceive she would produce a daughter with the ability
to resist the roguish good looks of Jacko and his son.

Back in the lounge, Sarah settled beside Jacko on the couch. The
television was on low, a game show in progress. Two single lamps were reflected
in the window. The coals on the fire burned bright orange. When small pieces of
charred wood shot onto the hearth Jacko put out a restraining hand to stop her
from jumping up. 'Leave them,' he whispered, pulling her close and nuzzling her
neck.

But Sarah's ever-alert ears detected a sound. Thinking Jimmy was in the
room, she glanced over Jacko's shoulder. One of the lamps had gone out which
accounted for the 'phut' sound she'd heard. Bulbs don't last five minutes, she
thought, as Jacko probed her ear with his tongue. The next instant, stiffening
with alarm, she pushed him away and stared open-mouthed at the opposite wall.
Over the stereo an independent shaft of light slowly descended and circled an
unopened bottle of Bristol Cream. The beam had no obvious source and maintained
its shaft-like shape even as it toured the bottle's curves. Fearfully, Sarah
nudged Jacko's chest and pointed.

Without a word Jacko rose and left the room. Sarah heard him unlock the
back door and go outside. The shaft continued its orbit … up, across, and down.
Jacko passed the window and disappeared into the dark. For a moment Sarah
worried in case he didn't come back but he soon reappeared, giving a comical
grin as he pulled a silly face and pressed nose and finger-tips against the
cold glass … eleven ghostly blobs that somehow had the power to dismiss the
light shaft and leave the bottle intact.

On his return, Jacko explained his assumption that a child was
responsible for the illusion (angling a mirror at the light was a trick he
played on his sister Fran), but he’d found nothing in the garden to confirm his
theory. No glass, no kid. He had forgotten that the garden was solidly fenced,
the gate locked and bolted, and the residential area devoid of offspring.

On Christmas morning Jacko opened the
sherry while Jimmy tore through his presents like a whirlwind, casting aside a
new blue coat and a pillowcase of assorted toys in order to play with a
sizeable red train, a gift from the paternal grandparents. By mid-morning the
apartment looked like a tip, causing Sarah some embarrassment when Mr and Mrs
Biggins, the elderly couple next door, came to contribute a colouring book and
crayons to Jimmy's acquisitions. They stayed for mince-pies and sherry and
listened to the tale of the spooky visitation.

Mr Biggins squatted on the floor to play with Jimmy's toys, a move which
for the first time drew Jimmy's concentration away from the train. Mr Biggins
leafed through the colouring book but Jimmy showed more interest in a plastic
cone that fired balls into the air. One ball, to be exact. Knowing his son's
prowess for losing small things Jacko had hidden the other five. Mr Biggins
showed Jimmy how to fire the ball then catch it in the cone but the youngster's
co-ordination was as yet unformed and the second time he tried the ball rolled
under a straight-backed dining-chair. Seeing his face crumple Sarah promptly
moved the chair to retrieve it. There was no sign of the white celluloid ball.

Leaving his sherry glass on the table Jacko crossed the room and stood
at Sarah's side, gawking in disbelief at the place where the ball had
disappeared. Mr Biggins wondered if it had bounced behind the radiator - an
ineffective one situated three feet from the ground, but their probing was
abortive. There was no opening big enough for a ball to get through.

Jimmy was lamenting his loss. While Sarah held him in her arms, as much
for her benefit as his, Mr Biggins and Jacko searched the area. They examined
the skirting board but nothing could have rolled through a quarter-inch knot-hole
in the wood. There was no hiding place on either the chair or the adjacent
stereogram. The carpet was firmly fixed to the floor and, unless there was a
concealed trap door, the wall was intact. They had literally watched the ball
go.

At first Sarah thought the question was an accusation and was about to
word a denial when Mrs Biggins spoke again.

'The previous tenants lost things. In fact, he left her because of it.
Said he couldn't take her carelessness any longer. They had a dreadful row. We
heard it quite distinctly with the windows open.'

'Well, I won't be leaving,' gasped Jacko, breathless from lugging the
stereo to its rightful place.

Mr Biggins reinstated the chair in front of the radiator. 'Glad to hear
it, lad. Can't abide marriage break-ups. Young 'uns these days don't have
enough commitment.'

Sarah was quiet, reflecting on other objects that had gone astray: toys
from Jimmy's room, his pants and cotton tops from the airing cupboard. All
Jimmy's things! Incredulously, she shook her head as it occurred to her that
the airing cupboard was in a corresponding position to the radiator on the
other side of the wall. She turned to Mrs Biggins. 'Jimmy's stuff goes missing.
Clothes and toys. Did the other couple have children?'

'No, but there was a family here before them who had a daughter, a
lovely, curly-headed child. She was five when she died. Drowned in the river.'

'How tragic,' Sarah said, making a mental note never to allow Jimmy near
the river alone. Maybe the child's ghost was purloining Jimmy's stuff. She
quickly suppressed the idea as ridiculous. Ghosts didn't steal. Neither did
they wear clothes

In the New Year Sarah began to notice
strange smells around the airing cupboard, inside and out, like over-ripe
fruit. Unable to find the cause, she began supervising Jimmy's fruit intake,
sitting with him until he finished and personally trashing the core. But the
smells persisted, notably when Jimmy was around. Only traces remained when he
was at nursery school.

She discussed the matter with Reg Phipps, the guy who lived on the upper
floor, a bruiser of man, scaffolder by trade. She mentioned it because of his
habit of hovering in the communal yard, nibbling the last remnants of apple
before tossing the core in the bin, speculating on the possibility of a link.
Considerately, Reg offered to investigate and the following Saturday he arrived
at the back door armed with a tool box. Jacko was taken aback, but agreed with Reg
that all avenues should be explored to trace the cause of the smell. Between
them they completely dismantled the cupboard. They found nothing, neither an
apple pip nor a piece of orange peel, yet the fruity fragrance pervaded the
kitchen as fresh as if newly released from its skin.

'That's that,' said Jacko as he tightened the final screw. 'There's
nothing more we can do. The smell remains a mystery.'

In September Sarah knuckled down to
night school studies and on alternate evenings Jacko played darts with Reg.
Sometimes Sarah took advantage of Jacko’s absence by studying history in a hot
bath, holding her revision book free of lavender-smelling suds. It was the
ultimate in luxury for the bath was situated in the warm kitchen with the
telephone new to hand.

One Tuesday, during a leisurely soak, the telephone rang. It was Marie,
a friend from work. Outside a storm raged. Listening to Marie’s version of an
incident at work, Sarah sipped her coffee, then ran the hot tap, slithering
down until her shoulders were covered with foam. The blinds shivered at the
window, reminding her to get a draught excluder fixed before winter set in.
While Marie rattled on about the boss, Sarah heard a noise above the wind.
Someone entering the yard. She strained to listen, hearing the dustbin lid
scrape open, then clang shut, and the gate forcibly drawn to. She was
thunderstruck since Reg was the only other person to use the yard and he was
out playing darts.

Swiftly cutting the call she abandoned the phone and climbed out of the
bath, donned a cotton robe and hurried to the bedroom window which had to be
passed to reach either the road or the front of the house. Seeing no-one, she
put it down to the wind playing tricks with her imagination. Yet, as soon as
she returned to the kitchen and heard the same noises she knew she was wrong.

Metal on metal, wood on wood.

Once more she raced to the window; again no-one was there. Clutching her robe to her, she checked Jimmy’s room. He was sleeping
peacefully, one hand tucked under his chin, his teddy tucked under his neck. As
Sarah eased the toy away she glanced through the window. The kitchen light
shone through the transom over the door, illuminating the gate. As expected it
was closed, bolted at the top as well as half way down. Sarah was suddenly
scared. Only a giant could have unbolted and rebolted the gate from the
outside. Even Reg wasn’t that big. Her eye alighted on the refuse bin, its
black rubber lid secure … and wondered how long it had been since the metal bin
with the noisy lid had been replaced by plastic.

A year after the first encounter with
the unknown, Reg came up with the idea of calling the spirit’s bluff, believing
the whole thing was nothing more than a young spirit wanting to play. Though
why a spirit should want to play with Jimmy’s things was beyond Sarah’s
comprehension. The stink of seasoned fruit had continued to come and go,
dependent upon whether Jimmy was in or out. Parts of his train set had strayed,
all but three of his vests had walked, and a lace from one of his trainers
simply vanished before her eyes. That’s when Reg prompted her to ask for its
return and see what transpired. He’s been discussing the matter with someone at
work, someone who knew about psychic matters. Against her better judgement she
agreed to give it a go.

She chose an evening when Jacko and Reg were out, taking two glasses of
whisky to give her courage, bravely deciding to ask for the return of the
original ball and work through the other items if nothing developed.
Tremulously, she ventured into the kitchen and stood centre-stage, feet apart,
one hand resting on a chair, eyes cast upwards. Please can we have our ball
back?’ she said, feeling utterly foolish as the words left her mouth.

Nothing happened, not a rumble nor a groan let alone a promise to stop
thieving, but Sarah was sure the smell grew stronger as she spoke. Moving
nearer to the airing cupboard she tried again, drawing herself to full height
and adopting a masterful approach, threatening the spirit with extinction if
the ball wasn’t immediately given back.

Nothing!

Just an incipient citrus smell.

Two days later, outside the
greengrocers, Sarah bumped into Mrs Biggins. ‘How’s Jimmy.’ Asked the old lady,
stuffing a cabbage in her bag.

‘He’s fine, thanks.’

‘I thought I heard him in the garden the other day but then I realised
he’d be at nursery. It did sound like him, though. I was looking after next
door’s cat while they were away, feeding it and letting it out to do its
functions. When I went to call him the rascal wouldn’t come. I called until I
was nearly hoarse. ‘Someone said He’s
here, Mrs Biggins. Could’ve sworn it was your Jimmy.’ Mrs Biggins
transferred her shopping to the other hand. ‘It was definitely a child’s voice
and I naturally assumed….. except, come to think, it sounded more like a girl.’

That afternoon, dressed in jeans and a
couple of warm sweaters, Sarah toured the garden planning what vegetables to
grow. Daffodil shoots were already an inch out of the ground. A watery sun
shone, giving the place a premature springtime feel. She stopped to uproot a
tuft of grass from the border, tugging it free of hard soil, and there, nesting
in the weeds was a white celluloid ball, grubby but unharmed, still bearing the
imprint trade mark of Jimmy’s toy.

***

Later, returning the last towel to the
cupboard, Sarah chastised herself for being over-sensitive. If the child’s
spirit was pilfering Jimmy’s things it must mean the poor thing was making him welcome.
Jimmy was never hurt so why should she worry?

Lifting her eyes to the ceiling, she
cried ‘Okay, little one, choose what you want and I’ll iron it for you.’

Sarah could have sworn she heard a faint chuckle when Jimmy’s little shirt,
the one with the comic train, fell from the top of the pile and floated to the
table, where it lay in a crumpled heap alongside the iron.

All stories posted on A Mixed Bag are the original work of Valerie Daggatt and as such are protected under International Copyright laws. They are for online viewing purposes and may not be copied, saved, reproduced, or distributed without permission.